


i wasn’t injured. i was lightly stabbed.

by icedhotcocoa



Series: Bingo!!!!! [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur stabs a man!, Community: inceptiversary, Community: trope_bingo, Hurt/Comfort, Inception Bingo, M/M, Oblivious Arthur, Pre-Slash, and italics, just an ode to how much I love Arthur..., or just. in denial arthur, or really discomfort/comfort, overuse of dashes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 04:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20420108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icedhotcocoa/pseuds/icedhotcocoa
Summary: And that’s really the thing, isn’t it? Arthur would do this for Eames. There’s some sort of strange, unspoken, against-all-odds, mutual trust in one another. Maybe that’s why when Eames rolls under the covers in boxers and a tank top, and Arthur doesn’t get up even though he’s just slept for hours, because Eames’ presence seems to make Arthur want to curl up and sleep.“You will be very awake later,” Eames assures him cheerily, “Because the only pain medication I have at the moment is extra-strength Tylenol.”





	i wasn’t injured. i was lightly stabbed.

The first thing Arthur is aware of is how uncomfortable this couch is. Not necessarily because it’s too lumpy, or too hard, or too soft, but more due to the fact that it’s uncomfortably short. His feet dangle off one end, the strangely shaped armrest digging into his calves. The second thing he’s aware of is that his entire body hurts in far too many ways. 

“I,” Arthur announces to the ceiling, not bothering to open his eyes, “feel like  _ shit. _ ”

“I assumed,” a voice says, pleasantly. Arthur cracks open an eye to squint at him. Eames is kneeling by Arthur’s head, sandwiched between the short couch from hell and a rickety old coffee table. He’s also holding a very soft-looking grey shirt. Arthur is suddenly aware of the fact that his own shirt is nowhere to be found--and, wait--the sweatpants that he’s wearing are  _ definitely _ not his. Eames tosses the T-shirt to him. “That tends to happen when you get stabbed, drugged up, and then barrel roll out the side of a moving vehicle,” he explains to Arthur patiently, as if he is a very small, confused child. 

Arthur blinks confusedly. His hand feels around blindly until it finds the bandage on his side. Jokes on them, he supposes, the suturing process would’ve been slightly more painful without the fuck-ton of sedatives. He does a quick mental review. There are assorted bruises around his ribs and gauze patches on his arms, likely covering up scrapes from his tumble out of the van. The worst of it is the stab wound. All things considered, it’s not so bad. His body protests that, however, as he painstakingly sits up and feels every single bone in his body scream in  _ pure agony _ .

Eames is still sitting patiently, looking content. The bastard. 

Arthur wants to ask him a number of things, like _How the hell did he know where to find him?_ or, _Why the hell did he know where to find him?_ or, _Did he seriously undress him while he was unconscious or semi-conscious and give him clean clothes, because_ t_hat’s a pretty severe breach of privacy,_ _even if Eames did it to save him and also maybe if he doesn’t really mind very much, because for some unfathomable reason he trusts Eames, but it’s still confusing and he’d like some confirmation that it was Eames who undressed him while he was unconscious and gave him clean clothes and not his kidnappers,_ _although it would be strange if his kidnappers cared enough to give him soft pants._

Arthur instead says, “Your couch sucks,” because it seems like the most pressing of these matters. 

Eames’ eyes crinkle in a half-smile. “Sorry about that,” he murmurs, standing up. “Didn’t want you bleeding on my bed, but I suppose there’s no harm in tossing you there now.”

“This is your house?” Arthur asks, belatedly. His thoughts feel wispy and fleeting. The idea hadn’t struck him until now. Eames makes a vague gesture.

“One of them, at least,” he shrugs. “Hadn’t been here in ages up ‘till yesterday. Not exactly the five star that I’m sure you’re used to.”

Arthur has a foggy look around. The apartment is small but not cluttered, mostly void of personal belongings. The majority of the furniture seems old, the couch cushions faded and the wood coffee table mottled with ring stains. He can see the black and white tiled floor of the kitchen if he cranes his head to the left. 

He could see himself living here, he thinks. He clearly hasn’t gotten all the drugs out of his system.

“It’s nice,” he says, finally. Eames snorts.

“Ah, thank you for the glowing praise, Arthur,” he says, nudging him with his leg. “Now, C’mon, up you get. I’m afraid you’re stuck here for a bit longer.”

Arthur obediently rises to his feet. He feels like he could fall over at any second, his side throbs, his bruises ache, and he’s still _so_ _goddamn exhausted._ As if reading his mind, Eames goes to help him. He slings one of Arthur’s arms over his shoulders and wraps his own around Arthur’s hip, shuffling slowly with him.

“Why are you doing this?” Arthur asks, tiredly.

Eames laughs. “Well, if you feel like you can walk to bed without my help, be my guest.”

Arthur doesn’t bother to point out that’s not what he’s asking. He’s sure Eames knows.

They make their way to the small bedroom together--just as antique and barren as the rest of the apartment--and Arthur unceremoniously flings himself onto the queen-sized bed. His bruises ache in protest, but it’s worth it for the sweet relief the rest of his body feels at being horizontal again. He makes a satisfied noise, rolling onto his back. 

Eames sits at the foot of the bed, wearing the same faintly amused expression he’s had this whole time. A more coherent Arthur might be able to decipher what it means. 

“The guy,” Arthur says, suddenly. “The… the van guy. Did he--”

Eames lays a hand on his knee. “It’s taken care of. Just sleep, darling,” he says, uncomfortably soft.

Arthur is planning on asking for more information, but before his brain can grasp onto the words, he’s asleep.

***

The job was over. The pay had been distributed. Things went as smoothly as they usually did these days (which is to say, not very. The mark, a James McCarthy, almost realized they were dreaming  _ more than once _ . He’s never working with that extractor again). So why did Arthur still feel a disturbing prickling at the back of his neck?

He turned sharply to duck into a convenience store around the corner. As casually as possible while remaining swift, he began rifling through some newspapers in a rack by the window. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a gray sedan pull up outside and stall in front of the store. If it was a tail, they were doing an awful job of it.

Arthur walked out of the store without buying anything. He kept his pace brisk and didn’t check to see if the car followed him, turning again onto a narrow and mostly barren one-way street. A man bumped into him and mumbled a quick apology. Arthur could feel the fingers dip into his coat pocket.  _ Amateur _ , Arthur scoffed internally, smoothly turning around to confront the pickpocket. 

“Excuse me,” he begins. “I believe that's--”

Someone grabbed him from behind before he could finish his sentence. Reflexes kicking in, he twisted around to engage his attacker, but suddenly someone--the pickpocket, he realized dimly--was restraining him from behind as well. 

Arthur thrashed. Usually he could get out of this easily, but then the pickpocket was grabbing his wrists and then the man was pressing a cloth to his face and then he woke up slumped in the back of a van.

Arthur’s eyelids felt like they were glued shut. His throat felt scratchy and dry, yet it was such a task to breathe that his lungs seemed like they were flooding with water. His hands, he noted, were tied in front of him with some sort of makeshift fabric rope. Stupid of his attackers, since the cloth had some give. He pried his eyes open to get a better look at his surroundings.

“Moore, think he’s awake,” a man said. He faintly remembers this man as the pickpocket. The other man--Moore--looked up from his idle position near Arthur.

“S’alright. Looks out of it anyways.” Moore shrugged.

The other man frowned and gestured offhandedly at Arthur with the switchblade in his hand. “He shouldn’t be awake. ‘Sides, McCarthy wants him sleeping. Give him another jab, couldn’t hurt.” 

Moore heaved a sigh, standing up and pulling a syringe out of the breast pocket of his baggy coat. “Who put you in charge, Lawson?” 

Arthur is a man of precise planning. He would wait for Moore to lean down, so he could slam his tied hands down on his head, taking him down long enough to deal with the other guy. He’s scraped by in more difficult situations.

Unfortunately, Arthur greatly overestimated his own reflexes while his muscles did their best impressions of lead weights.

Moore shoved the syringe into his shoulder. Arthur swore and swung too late, getting him in the gut rather than the head. Either way, it sent Moore reeling backward just far enough for Arthur to stand up, his vision going blurry and his head swimming, and kick him down. 

“Jesus Christ!” Lawrence shouted, pulling a gun and gearing up to shoot. It was a miracle that Arthur was coordinated enough to jump on him, disarming him and spinning around just in time to shoot Moore and keep him down. 

“What the fuck is goin’ on back there?” The driver shouted from the front. Arthur’s muddled mind forgot someone had to be driving. He was so momentarily stunned by this epiphany that he didn’t notice Lawrence moving to stab him until the switchblade was jammed in his side.

“Oh, sorry,” Arthur said, then shot him. 

There is more swearing from the driver's seat, which Arthur takes as his exit cue. He swung the van’s back doors open, sparing a moment to think,  _ Wow, we sure are going fast, _ before ungracefully toppling out. He still had enough sense left in him to roll when he hit the road.

Things from there were a vague muddle of hazy memories. There was a gray sedan coasting to a stop, and there was Eames stepping out of the gray sedan, and there were gunshots and a lot of swearing and Eames again, leaning over him and looking panicked, and then there was sleep.

***

When Arthur wakes up, moonlight is trickling through the tiny window into the dark room. There is a glass of water sitting on the nightstand to his left. He rolls over and discovers that there is an Eames sitting on the bed to his right.

Eames is propped up against the wooden headboard, head lolling downwards in his sleep. He looks as though he didn’t mean to fall asleep here, fully dressed and with one leg uncomfortably dangling off the bed. It’s oddly endearing, and Arthur finds himself wanting to gently wake him and tuck him in. He sighs, opting for the glass of water instead. 

Eames wakes up when Arthur shifts, regardless. He exhales softly, scrubbing his hands across his face and blinking awake. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” Arthur says, distantly amused. 

“Ah,” Eames yawns, “Apologies, darling. It seems time got away from me.” He grimaces as he stretches his arms above his head and sits up. 

“What time is it, anyway?” 

Eames takes a moment to check his watch. “Around one, ‘think.” he hums. 

Arthur frowns. “Sorry. I didn’t know it was so late--early, I guess, you can sleep--”

Eames waves him off blearily. “Come here. I should check your bandages, in any case.”

Arthur obediently sets down the glass of water and crawls out of the covers, rolling up his shirt so he can get a good look at his side. They stay in comfortable quiet for a few moments, Arthur half-dozing and Eames’ hands carefully prodding his various injuries.

“We can get away with changing these tomorrow, and then you can probably go without them,” Eames says, finally. “The stitches are going to have stay for at least a week, though.”

Arthur silently slumps back against the headboard. He tips his head back, looking at the ceiling.

Eames is so quiet, here. It feels strange to have him so docile, dutifully nursing after Arthur. Arthur doesn’t like it as much as he thought he would. Or maybe he likes it too much. He doesn’t know how to feel anymore, especially not when Eames’ fingers are absentmindedly tapping on Arthur’s hipbone while he’s lost in thought.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Arthur asks, for the second time that night. “So, why are you?”

Eames glances at him strangely before simply shrugging. “I was in the neighborhood. Couldn’t very well leave you lying there on the highway now, could I?”

“Why  _ were _ you in the neighborhood, anyway?” Arthur tries not to sound accusatory, but he’s determined to get an answer from Eames. “And tailing me--which you did an awful job of, by the way.”

“Tailing--! Arthur, I wasn’t tailing you for God’s sakes,” Eames says. “I saw you walking and I was going to say ‘hi’, offer you a ride, or something. I knew you had a job around here.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. He pauses awkwardly, frowning. “Hi.”

Eames raised his eyebrows in disbelief. He laughs incredulously. “Hello, darling. Nice to see you, glad you could make it,” he huffs. 

Arthur can't help but smile fondly. This is the Eames he knows well. “Thank you,” he says, genuinely. Eames looks caught off guard.

“Nothing that you wouldn’t do for me, I’m sure.” The corner of his mouth quirks upwards.

And that’s really the thing, isn’t it? Arthur  _ would _ do this for Eames. There’s some sort of strange, unspoken, against-all-odds, mutual trust in one another. Maybe that’s why he raises his hand to settle over Eames’ hand, fingers slipping in all the places Eames’ aren’t. Or why Eames teases him about it but doesn’t make any move to let go until he decides that he needs to get dressed for bed. And it’s certainly why they don’t say anything about Eames rolling under the covers in boxers and a tank top, and Arthur doesn’t get up even though he’s just slept for hours, because Eames’ presence seems to make Arthur want to curl up and sleep.

“You will be very awake later,” Eames assures him cheerily, “Because the only pain medication I have at the moment is extra-strength Tylenol.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I’ll figure something out.”

He spends the rest of the night with Eames’ head tucked into his shoulder, the rest of him sprawled across the bed and over Arthur like a starfish. Arthur sneaks one hand into Eames’ hair and the other over Eames’ laptop, which was actually Arthur’s laptop that Eames apparently stole months ago.

He could see himself living here, he thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> title ripped shamelessly from a b99 quote!
> 
> For the bingo square “hurt/comfort”
> 
> no betas, but special thanks to [ whirl](whirling) for convincing me to join bingo in the first place! or write. literally anything. so, thank you :)


End file.
